


Heart Made of Parts

by alexa_dean



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Background Relationships, Barebacking, Bloodplay, Bottom Dean, Dirty Talk, Hurt Dean Winchester, Implied Incest, Infidelity, M/M, Manhandling, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn, Season/Series 08
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-09
Updated: 2013-07-09
Packaged: 2017-12-18 05:12:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/875995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexa_dean/pseuds/alexa_dean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Benny reminds him of Sam sometimes; in the way Sam has never learned what no meant, as if Dean’s consent were merely an obstacle to overcome because reticence doesn’t suit someone who’s been around the block (a city?) as many times as Dean has.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heart Made of Parts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mekina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mekina/gifts).



> So this was supposed to be cuddly, morning-after fic. It's not. Epic fail on my part. All mistakes are my own and I have no one to blame this on. Stole the title from lyrics by Fiona Apple.

**Prequel:[I Got the Love that Keeps Me Waiting](http://alexadean.livejournal.com/47144.html)**

He drifts between wakefulness and sleep, humming into the curve of the body behind him, his brother’s name half-formed on his lips, when the hand on his stomach shifts, protective and secret, wrong-shaped and wrong-sized. Warmth leached from his skin to the skin sliding over his back. Faint thrum of desire catches him, quick and harsh, an unbroken line down his spine.  
  
Swallowing, the sound carries, heavy in the dark, kinetic buzz of hair against his neck, his shoulder; dim, blue light coming in through the blinds, his cue to go. He can do this, resist, because it can’t happen again. It shouldn’t. But he makes no move so he calculates the distance between him and Sam and the amount of money he needs for gas to get there. Anything to ignore whatever it is he’s feeling at the moment.  
  
What Dean should do is get up, soap and rinse away his indiscretions and find his way back to his brother, tail tucked between his legs, but head held inexorably to a heaven unwarranted to someone like him.  
  
But all the soft parts of him swell and flush anyway—lips, nipples, cock, and the mottled throb of his ass (seriously, he hopes he has ibuprofen in the glove-box or he’s never making it to Richardson).  
  
“Dean.”  
  
His name, no louder than a thought, lighter than he’s ever heard it, yet enough to set the air aflame, heat burning hottest over the curve of his hip, underneath Benny’s palm. He expects it to blacken, but it doesn’t. Sharp-edged bone cutting forward and Benny’s hand gliding over the hollow of his thigh, parting and undoing, spreading his knees apart to expose him. Blankets whisper around them, hissing as they catch on Dean’s skin, to puddle on the mattress.  
  
Dean goes with it, navigates by it, a lighthouse in the night. Benny’s lust is a bell-clang in his ear. He nudges Dean’s dick aside and traces the arc of his balls, touches fingertips lightly along the seam, stealing Dean’s breath until he’s turning his head to search for Benny’s mouth and it’s soft and loose against his, Benny’s beard sand-paper rough on his face; an addictive blend like black coffee after a hard night.  
  
 _Open up,_  Benny says with the contours of his mouth, the drag of his hands and the thick curving dick riding the divide of Dean’s ass,  _let me in._  Dean is still wet from the night before, the seed of it in his belly.  
  
The words stick in his throat. Benny reminds him of Sam sometimes; in the way Sam has never learned what  _no_  meant, as if Dean’s consent were merely an obstacle to overcome, which is also truer than Dean likes to let on, and Dean finds himself forever folding with shaky hands and parted lips, sick with the fear of loving and losing.  
  
Reticence doesn’t suit someone who’s been around the block (a city?) as many times as Dean has.  
  
He wonders if things were ever this easy between him and Sam, if Sam was ever this gentle. He doesn’t want to know so he kisses back with misplaced anger and Benny catches on and his nails dig into Dean’s cheeks and his teeth catch on his lower lip, cat-like texture of his tongue undulating against his own.  
  
Desire is a persistent weight in his stomach, rooting him to the place as they rock together, Benny holding him and sucking the not-promises from Dean’s mouth and Dean presses back because he wants to, Benny’s cock leaving wet trails against his perineum, pelvis cradling Dean’s ass. His hand is a careful sweep over Dean’s nipples, teasing them to points, rubbing them with his thumb.  
  
“You—you can drink if you want,” he says to Benny, thinking of all the times in Purgatory when Benny had been hurt enough to need a boost to heal.  
  
“You sure?”  
“I trust you to pull back, man. Don’t think too much about it.”  
  
Benny stops and just looks at Dean, eyes narrowed, incandescent lights in his face. Dean  _hates_ when he does that, because it makes him wonder what Benny is thinking and it makes Dean’s head noisy with it. Irritates the fuck out of him.  
  
“I’m not hanging around to be analyzed, asshole.” He  _hates_  the stupid pity in Benny’s face. It reminds him of Lisa, his curiosity of Cas, his tendency to want to talk things through of Sam.  
  
Dean is busy hating so much he’s wondering why he’s sticking around. He swings his feet over the mattress edge when Benny’s arm belts around his waist and slams him back down on his stomach. He has a mouthful of cotton and a heavy hand on the small of his back and he thinks,  _oh, hell yes!_  
  
His dick twitches at the thought of  _quick and dirty_  and on the  _wrong side of pain_  and he’s squirming already, spreading as Benny parts his ass-cheeks, holding them apart with thumb and forefinger and Dean’s face burns from the thought of what Benny is looking at, how puffy and red he must be, how slick, if the cool air is anything to go by. He pushes back into Benny’s hand, clutching at the sheets.  
  
 _“Christ.”_  Dean can hear the amusement in Benny’s voice. “You’re something else. You always like this?”  
.  
“Anyone tell you not to look a gift horse in the mouth?"  
  
Benny does laugh then. “You’re a bossy little fuck.” But he’s thrusting his thumb inside, sliding it around and tugging a little at the rim and Dean clenches his teeth, makes a startled, guttural sound.  
  
He doesn’t get a chance to complain, because Benny’s already forcing through his hole and Dean is overtaken with that same careful jolt of pleasure, that hyperawareness of Benny’s knees brushing the insides of his thighs, the fingertips on his spine and the satisfying burn, equal to the resentment he feels for wanting this, another attachment he can’t afford, like Lisa, like Cas, like everyone he’s ever loved, for the choices fate has never given him.  
  
And it really is pretty glorious to be teased open this way, made to accept it as if it has nothing to do with his pleasure, which he knows is fucked up, but he likes anyway. He hums into it and hitches his hips, claiming and swallowing a few more inches, his moans growing in volume and urgency.  
  
Slowly, Benny works the come out of him; forming cool rivulets down his perineum and over his balls and Dean keeps scratching at the sheets and shoving back, yet held at bay by Benny’s hand and his patience.  
  
Dean can wait. Not like he has a choice, not that it bothers him too much, because the tug-shove of it is really fucking good. Sure, it’s a little wetter than he likes, prefers it just enough to keep him out of the ER. It’s different though, nothing like Sam, who has spent a lifetime figuring Dean out and it’s kind of unfair to compare. And he kind of hates Sam for it. Like, a  _lot._  Because Sam is kind of a freak, physically, and no amount of lube helps. He really has to blame Sam for his preferences. _Bastard._  
  
“What you goin’ on ‘bout?”  
  
“Nothing,” Dean mutters, sort of embarrassed.  
  
And then Benny’s there, a welcome weight over him, and his teeth deep in the meat of his shoulder, enough to puncture but not enough to tear, a tease like the dick in his ass. And then Benny’s in, all the way so Dean gasps, lifts his left knee to get him in deeper and mumbles  _harder_  as Benny suckles at his shoulder. Pulling blood from his veins as he’s thrusting in and shoving them up the mattress, all strength and easy grace and everything Dean needs to get off.  
  
Dean’s voice is still raw from last night and he’s beyond sore, the pain becoming nothing but an unsatisfying buzz. Benny plays him expertly, drawing it out, working his hands underneath Dean’s chest, pinching his nipples and screwing him deep and sucking him into languid submission. He arches into it, chest forward, hips back, loving it.  
  
It feels like being stitched together after falling apart, the sort of pain you need to heal. And he’s hemmed in close to Benny on all sides, covered up and vibrating with the growing tension in his belly. Just as Dean feels the first shock of dizziness, Benny stops sucking and presses his tongue to Dean’s wound, waiting for the blood to clot, but the pace of his thrusts increase and Dean’s got to brace against the headboard to keep them in place, but he’s feeling all kinds of knotted up and over-fucked or maybe fucked  _over_.  
  
“You’re gonna make me come,” he says, like it’s an issue or something he doesn’t want.  
  
 _“Yeah?”_ Benny huffs against his neck. “You gonna come just from me fucking you? Like a  _girl?”_  
  
Dean is panting, quick staccato huffs that start from his diaphragm and end as an echo against the walls around them.  
  
 _“Yeah, yeah.”_  
  
Benny shifts, angles just right and now Dean is really moaning, because-- because it’s perfect, jouncing right off his prostate. His brow furrows and his ass tightens, trying to push Benny out, because it’s too much too suddenly, and too fast, and Dean is oversensitive and the sheets are scraping the skin off his cheek and his cock and his nipples and he doesn’t know how he’s going to keep it all from Sam’s notice.  
  
But he twists his hips, ass jerking against Benny, rhythm unbroken, unrestrained. He can see the finish line like it’s bounding toward him instead of the other way around. He stumbles in his own slick, falls in agony and bliss with the flex and extension of his orgasm, but Benny isn’t there yet, yanks Dean back on his dick by his hips and works him back and forth, quick and forceful, as he remains stationary behind Dean, like Dean is a toy for his enjoyment.  
  
Dean is pretty sure his lip is bleeding and he has a hole in his cheek because he was pretty unprepared for Benny’s sudden violence. Dean is trembling and he’s unsure whether it’s from overstimulation or blood-loss, the muscles in his thighs and ass keep twitching and his heart won’t slow down.  
  
So he tries his best getting Benny there, moaning and clinching around him, letting him curl over his back.  
  
“ _You gonna shoot your load in me?_ ” he manages to get out shakily, “You gonna make a  _mess_  outta me?”  
  
“Gonna leave you  _drippin’_ ,” Benny bites into his neck, his balls slapping Dean’s skin. “Sweetest ass I’ve ever fucked.”  
  
“ _Do it_ ,” Dean counters with his words and his body. “ _Let me feel it_.” His hands curl into fists.  
  
Then Benny’s there, pulsing and pumping erratically, artlessly stroking Dean’s belly and Dean lets himself fall onto his elbows and tries not to buck Benny off. He’s kissing Dean’s shoulders as his thrusts even out .  
  
“Hey,” he says tentatively, fighting the urge to shrug Benny off. “I’d love to chat but I have places to be.”  
  
Dean’s uncomfortably sensitive, but he’s anxious too. Itchy to get back on the road.  
  
“Yeah.” No argument, no question, no digging for commitments. He meets Dean’s eyes with a smile and more faith than Dean has in himself, in them, in the ability to handle things with Sam. He grabs the back of Dean’s neck and steals a kiss.  
  
“Go, or I won’t get any sleep.”  
  
He’s pathetically thankful that Benny makes things so easy when Dean’s a fucking mess. He has no idea what he’s doing and the straws he’s grasping for are already out of his reach. What is there left to say? Dean’s not good at these things. He wants a reason to run, but Benny won’t give him any.  
  
Dean rolls off the bed, exhales, feeling a little broken and a lot worn and pretty tender.  
  
He wants to ask  _why? Why me?_  
  
“I’m giving you ten seconds, before I start fucking you again.”  
  
Dean tries not to run to the bathroom, finding strength in every step, because there is nothing else he can do.


End file.
